“Hold up your head, sonny, and talk to the sergeant,” said Shawn. “Oh!” he roared, and suddenly he made a little rush forward. “I’ve got him,” he gasped; “he nearly got away. It isn’t a boy at all, sergeant; there’s whiskers on it!” “What do you say?” said the sergeant. “I put my hand under its chin and there’s whiskers on it. I nearly let him out with the surprise, I did so.” “Try again,” said the sergeant in a low voice; “you are making a mistake.” “I don’t like touching them,” said Shawn. “It’s a soft whisker like a billy-goat’s. Maybe you’d try yourself, sergeant, for I tell you I’m frightened of it.” “Hold him over here,” said the sergeant, “and keep a good grip of him.” “I’ll do that,” said Shawn, and he hauled some reluctant object towards his superior. The sergeant put out his hand and touched a head. “It’s only a boy’s size to be sure,” said he, then he slid his hand down the face and withdrew it quickly. “There are whiskers on it,” said he soberly. “What the devil can it be? I never met whiskers so near the ground before. Maybe they are false ones, and it’s just the boy yonder trying to disguise himself.” He put out his hand again with an effort, felt his way to the chin, and tugged. Instantly there came a yell, so loud, so sudden, that every man of them jumped in a panic. “They are real whiskers,” said the sergeant with a sigh. “I wish I knew what it is. His voice is big enough for two men, and that’s a fact. Have you got another match on you?” “I have two more in my waistcoat pocket,” said one of the men. “Give me one of them,” said the sergeant; “I’ll strike it myself.” He groped about until he found the hand with the match. “Be sure and hold him tight, Shawn, the way we can have a good look at him, for this is like to be a queer miracle of a thing.” “I’m holding him by the two arms,” said Shawn, “he can’t stir anything but his head, and I’ve got my chest on that.” The sergeant struck the match, shading it for a moment with his hand, then he turned it on their new prisoner. They saw a little man dressed in tight green clothes; he had a broad pale face with staring eyes, and there was a thin fringe of grey whisker under his chin—then the match went out. “It’s a Leprecaun,” said the sergeant. The men were silent for a full couple of minutes—at last Shawn spoke. “Do you tell me so?” said he in a musing voice; “that’s a queer miracle altogether.” “I do,” said the sergeant. “Doesn’t it stand to reason that it can’t be anything else? You saw it yourself.” Shawn plumped down on his knees before his captive. [Illustration: “Tell me where the money is?” he hissed] “Tell me where the money is?” he hissed. “Tell me where the money is or I’ll twist your neck off.” The other men also gathered eagerly around, shouting threats and commands at the Leprecaun.